The Storyteller
by TC1097
Summary: Ducky reflects upon his storytelling and his listeners.


**The Storyteller**

_**A NCIS Fanfiction One Shot**_

**Summary:**

Ducky reflects upon his storytelling and his listeners.

**Note:**

Next installment of _Chasing Jack_ on the way soon!

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**The Storyteller**

Apparently or so I have been told I am a bit of a storyteller. And I suppose the title would not be completely inaccurate. However, I do prefer to think of them as anecdotes rather than stories. I suppose it makes them sound more on the elegant side and less like dime store novels. Either way I have to admit that perhaps I do have a slight tendency to spin a tale now and then. At times I have even been told I have a talent for rambling. That accusation I beg to differ with most vehemently! I confess that on occasion my anecdotes are rather – well let's call them _involved_ shall we? But rambling? I think not!

Autopsy is so very quiet and still tonight that my own anecdotes seem to linger in the air. I have told so many of them in this very room to the dead and living alike. I would not dare to hazard a guess as to whether or not the dearly departed hear the tales I tell.

I am not so foolish to think that my words change anything. I can only offer them some minute shred of comfort with which to send them on their journey. I do so hope that those such as Caitlin and Jenny carried that much away with them. At times I wish I had more to bring to the table so to speak, but one must keep perspective about these things. We can only do so much. We are human after all.

Fortunately, I have the opportunity to offer more to those members of my audience who are still breathing. I dare say most of them hear my tales even those that feign that they have not. And some of my accounts are simply for nostalgia or fun and still others I intend with greater purpose.

The truly amazing part is that each and every member of my living audience responds uniquely to my storytelling. They may think I do not I notice but I most certainly do. From my observations I have come to conclude that they are quite a curious lot.

First there is young Mr. Palmer. He always starts out eager to listen and learn or be entertained. I would have to declare it one of his best qualities. He is open to others thoughts and knowledge unlike some who are so thoroughly closed off to expanding their mind.

His willingness to listen on occasion only gets him so far. A taunt bewildered expression has crept over his face more than few times. He has always had difficulty with navigation so I suppose it is that piece that causes him to not immediately discover my point. He arrives at the destination eventually, however, whether he realizes he has or not. But he never fails to at least try to listen and follow along. I can always count on him for that. Certainly there are others who are willing as well but their interest comes from another place.

Such is the case with Timothy who often starts out listening out of politeness. The boy seems to grasp manners quite well. His need not to be rude may open up his ears to my tales but it is his intellect that keeps him listening. His thirst for knowledge picks up on the more academic aspects that are interwoven in my accounts. I can see in his expression that his mind is processing the new information, linking it together with other facts, and filing them away in their proper logical place in his mind. This often results in him making a connection with something that may be utilized in the technical side of an investigation.

Unfortunately, once that intellectual bridge is crossed his manners seem to abandon him. I dare say he may even depart without as much as a goodbye much less a word of thanks. Most often if this occurs he races off to the bullpen or the forensics lab. I wish to believe that if he did not have these moments of near tunnel vision focus I would receive both the goodbye and the thank you.

Speaking of matters relating to focus that brings me to Abigail. Telling a tale to the young woman, especially one with great relevance to the issue at hand, often requires a great deal of patience on my end. I fear that it may come to the point where I may have to prescribe a reduction in caffeine intake for her own good - perhaps for ours as well. Although this measure may only result in a slight calming of the whirlwind of energy that she can be at times.

_Where was I? _ _Oh yes! Trying to tell dear Abigail an anecdote!_

With her I must always keep in mind that even if she appears not to be paying a lick of attention to my words at least in part she is mentally present. If I was not truly aware of her exquisite ability for multitasking I might be offended by her focus upon another task while I was speaking to her. Akin to Mr. Palmer she occasionally outwardly displays a delay between the ending of my tale and her arrival at its overall message. Unlike with Mr. Palmer, however, it is due to split focus and not being navigational challenged. But I do often receive a thank you for my efforts.

If Abigail can be a dizzying whirlwind on occasion Ziva may resemble a totem pole at times. Often when I am recounting some endeavor or adventure she stands silently, hands clasped together at her back, and ceases to so much as shift her body for quite a stretch of time. I prefer not to delve into the place from which this ability to maintain such a solider like stance became so engrained in her. However, her physical stillness appears to quell the static that is all too often present in her mind – despite her denial that it exists there. This ability to force calmness upon her body and mind when necessary allows her to hear the embedded message in my anecdotes.

However, she does not always display such a solid ability to hide her opinion of it inside her eyes. Occasionally Ziva can shut doors in her mind rather quickly when her view of the world is threatened. I have found that facts and beliefs I have expressed inside my tales have triggered the shutting of these mental doorways now and then. But her words are usually more diplomatic and often offer a hint of respect for my experience.

When it comes to closed doors Jethro might as well be a locksmith. His participation is more out of tolerance than willingness when it comes to my storytelling. He tolerates a certain number and length to my tales. Somehow despite my subtleness he is always able to tell when I am trying to pry open one of those doors which he has so securely locked up inside his mind. The best I can conclude is that it is instinct. Some are more in tune with it than others. In Jethro's case as troubling as it is I believe that the reason he is so tuned into it is that he developed it more strongly in response to tragedy. He opened himself up and perceives that he paid for doing so.

It's all a bit ironic considering the physical door to his house is not even so much as chained. I suppose for him the physical intruder is more easily overcome than the mental and emotional one. Things these days do tend to be very black and white with him and that is certainly how he prefers my tales. Despite what he may think I do realize I can be rather cryptic at times. I am also keenly aware that it agitates him but not every anecdote is intended to be immediately digested.

He is all too often in a rush to get to the black and white picture and wishes to blissfully ignore the grays and a whole spectrum of other colors. I do test his limits a bit by continuing sometimes even when I see his patience wearing thin. If I push little by little perhaps I just might be able to crack open one of those doors. Often my accounts are cut short by his insistence that there must be some sort of bottom line or point to the tale. I oblige him and save my prying for another day. Usually his gratefulness resides in his eyes but occasionally he calls out a quick _"Thanks Duck!"_ as he departs.

Where Jethro is all too impatient for me to get to the point our dear Anthony seems to rather enjoy savoring the more colorful and off key aspects of my anecdotes. I dare say that when I tell those types of tales the young man sees them playing on a mental screen inside his head as if they were one of his films. He brightens so with the quirkiness that can be found in life. It leads him to see our world at odd and often interesting angles others do not.

Unfortunately, I fear that it would appear that his attachment to the fictional side of storytelling may have been a result of an intensely lonely childhood in which he immersed himself in a world much more vibrant and reliable than the real one he existed in on a daily basis. As a lad I suspect he could find whatever he needed in the world of film. It offered him everything from companionship right on through to escape. What was desperately lacking in reality he could grasp onto in fiction. It may have led him in adulthood to sometimes looking for certain things in his life in the wrong world, searching the fictional world for answers that could only be found in real life.

On the brighter side the familiarity with storytelling he possesses through his movie watching does often assist in him catching on to the bigger picture or destination of my tale quite quickly. In his expression I can often see his mind turning its gears as if flipping forward through the pages of a script until it reaches the key scene of revelation. Once he arrives at it his face lights up and his eyes smile confidently. He knows he has landed upon the answer and he is certainly not one to hesitate to let others know rather animatedly and on occasion loudly. However, dear Anthony does so inspire me to keep sharing all the wonderful experiences I have collected over my lifetime. Whether the lad knows it or not he has a bit of storyteller in him as well. I suspect that someday Anthony will sitting back reflecting upon his listeners much like I am tonight.

Each of my listeners interprets my stories differently. Every individual takes some unique piece away from them that inevitably reflects back who they are as people and hints at just how they may have arrived there.

Oh dear! Did I just call them _stories_? Oh my! I do believe weariness must be doing its mischievous work on me. Perhaps it is past time to call it an evening.

Tomorrow is a new day brimming with opportunities to weave a tale or two!

_The End_


End file.
